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Catherine’s
Fortune
I
don’t know how I got the name French Kate.
But folks who know me call my Kate.
My real name is Catherine LeConte, but no one here in Pithole knows this
except for Ben. I go by Kate Granger or
French Kate for short. This here is my
house and we do real good business. Ben
keeps the girls in order and the men from getting too rowdy. Ben doesn't always play it straight. He's known for getting mixed up in a brawl, for
coming home with a bloody lip, or for gambling with the wrong sorts. I can’t tell you how many times someone has
come knocking on our door with a shotgun in the middle of the night. No law can keep him from doing wrong. Ben’s no fool though; he doesn’t try and get
himself killed. And the second he walks
through the door and sees me, his eyes light up. I've always had that giant under my
thumb.
Just
under a fortnight ago we were getting low on staff. Girls here get tired of the business after a
few months and they run off. There are a
few tough ones, who stay, and there are few more who are scared to leave for
fear of Ben or me, but our numbers are always going down. And in a town like this where there are fifty
men to one woman, staff is hard to come by.
So, Ben came up with this idea.
He's real good with ideas. He put
the ad in the Buffalo paper advertising a “hotel” we are running where we
needed fine young girls who could work as part of our staff. I got a real belly laugh when I read it. Told him he ought to get himself a job at the
Pihole Register as a reporter! Told him he could give old Crocus a run for
his money. I didn’t expect much from it, but since he sent it out we’ve gotten
half a dozen girls rolling in from all over New York. Most are young and inexperienced and real
surprised when they walk through the door.
But, it don’t take long to turn them around. A day or two locked up. A good fuck or two by Ben and a few threats
that we are gonna find their families and kill them and they open up their legs
to the public.
When
this last girl got off the train though I could see she was green as a sapling,
probably never even kissed a man. I knew
right away she'd be hard to break. But,
I got my ways. So do Ben. It's been 10 days and she's still holding
out. Tomorrow, I'll tell Ben to break
her in harder, maybe bring in a gun or a knife. Scare the fuck into her. I'm tired of hearing
her moaning and crying above my bed in the attic and we let her go much longer
she’s gonna be too weak to fuck anyone for a week.
I
wasn't always a Madame. I used to live
in an elegant house away from dust and mud.
I wore the finest gowns and was waited on by a full staff. My husband, Confederate General LeConte, was
well respected in New Orleans. And he
adored me each and every day he was alive.
Damn that war. What was I
supposed to do, stay in that house alone after he died? Live off that measly pension they sent
me? Graciously accept the note: Thank you ma'am. Your husband was a fine citizen of the United
States of America. I don't give a
damn about this country. I had myself a
fine life until this country took it all away from me. So, what was I to do? Sit and wait?
Learn a trade? I've always been
good with men. Since I was a little
girl, I could charm all of my father's friends.
The boys at school would follow me around like a pack of starving
dogs. Prostitution came naturally to
me. I liked the power I held over those
men. Touch them the right way and they
look at you like you were a god.
I
started pulling tricks in New Orleans, but soon realized my old reputation
would get in the way of who I wanted to become so I headed East. I first met Ben in New York. He was working as part of a traveling
gymnastics show as the strong man and he came to the house I was working
looking for a good fuck. I'll never
forget the first time he saw me. He jaw
just about dropped looking at me naked before him. Right then, I knew I had him under my thumb
for as long as I needed him. Within a
few months we had both settled in Pithole and set up shop. He had passed through this town as part of
his gymnastic act a few months before and he talked about the ratios of men to
women. “It’ll be a racket!” He said
grinning his big, stupid smile. “Ain’t
enough women to fuck in that town.” He became my business partner. I'm tough and have no problem keeping those
girls in line but when it comes to the angry johns, and the local business
partners who want to swing deals, it helps to have Ben's six and a half foot
frame looming next to me. This town is
like a fountain of money. Those boys hit
oil, get cash, and give it right to me.
They drink it away at my bar, they fuck it away with my girls and I just
smile and take their money.
Once,
a few years ago, I got a letter from someone in my old life. Ms. LeMurre, was an old neighbor and a dear
friend in New Orleans. Her husband was
also a confederate general, so we spent countless hours together during the
war. But, when the war ended and her
husband came home, and mine did not, I couldn't stand her. I hated that her husband had lived when mine
had died. What’s worse is she never even
knocked on my door to offer condolences.
She'd just peek through her window curtains every once in a while to see
first, the furniture being taken away, then the servants being let go. Or, finally, the men I begin to let in as I
learned my new trade. I’ll give her
this, she never did call the cops on me.
She just kept those curtains closed tight once she knew what was going
on.
That’s
why when the letter arrived, I didn't bother opening it. But even the existence of that letter filled
me with rage. Those first few months
before I knew what to do came rushing back to me in a terrible wave. For the first time in years I felt the loss
and loneliness washing over me and I hated her even more for that. I remembered my old life. It was in that rage that I threw the letter
down in the muddy street. It was undoubtedly
just a letter of regret. One where she finally
pours out her heart about how she'd wished she been there to help me in my time
of need. How, if only she had, my life
wouldn't have taken this terrible turn. How
she hopes now she can become my friend again and save me.
Well,
Ms. LeMurre, my fortune ain’t as bad as you make it out. I got more power in Pithole then you'd ever
wish for. My girls are the best in town
because I train them that way. They know
how to make men beg for more. Power men
come to our town just to fuck my girls. I
don't need your god damned pity. How do
you like being face down in the mud without a hope?
“Ben”
I shout, still feeling the rage in my cheeks.
“Go visit the girl. It’s time to
break her in the hard way. Bring in a shotgun, knife, whatever you think will
work. Threaten her like you did that last
one – threaten to find her family and kill them.”
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